Beloved By All Who Meet Her
by 3DWaveOfCelestialIntent
Summary: On a seemingly routine hunt, Sam and Dean stumble upon another figure from legend; her parting gift to Sam leaves Dean worried. Their subsequent search for answers brings them closer than ever.
1. Chapter 1: A Parting Kiss

Oh come on, Dean thought as he found himself flying through the air and into the dirty cement behind him, letting out a loud grunt and sliding to the floor, stunned. He was getting awfully tired of creatures with the ability to fling him around like a ragdoll with nothing but a wiggle of their fingers. His current opponent, a witch by the name of Endria, simply giggled sweetly and tossed her shimmering black locks over her dainty little shoulder. Dean caught himself staring at her hair…again. As much as he hated her, he had to admit she was easily the prettiest witch they had ever met. Maybe even the prettiest monster period. Still, he was glad Sam had warned Dean off of his advances. He was also glad he listened for once. If he hadn't, he probably would have been her next victim, another indiscernible bloodstain in some forgotten basement rendezvous.

He could see through the stars in his eyes that Sam had taken up a good position behind her, witch bullet aimed right at her chest. That is, if she would turn around. She still had her gaze pinned hungrily on Dean, the one she had declared was "more to her taste." Dean glanced at the smudges of red on the floor and shuddered. Gross. She slithered forward, hips swaying, long manicured nails reaching for Dean's jaw. Great, a chin grabber, he thought as he clambered back to his feet and stumbled away. I hate those. He shook his head in an effort to reorient himself. Sam tried to take a shot from the side and missed; the bullet shattered uselessly against the wall. Endria's head whipped around to face him, nostrils flared. It seemed she knew the smell of witch-killing brew and was none too happy to know they had it loaded into a gun. She waved her fingers and flung him forcefully against the far wall. The gun tumbled from his hands. She slammed him backward and used some of the sparse furniture to pin him. Dean could see the veins flexing in Sam's strong arms, but the two now enchanted chairs easily managed to hold him. Dean took the opportunity and dove for the gun but collided instead with a heavy cabinet she had sent his way. He felt his head hit the concrete with another sickening crunch and struggled to stay conscious. When his eyes finally regained their focus he found Endria crouched in front of his brother, both hands holding his head steady as she stared into his eyes. Sam couldn't break eye contact, caught now by the "snakecharm" spell she had used to get all of her victims down into this lair of hers. Fear, pain, and confusion clouded his expression.

"Sammy…" Dean managed a slurred shout. He pulled himself into a sitting position and began scanning the ground, his sense of urgency muffled by the new concussion he sported. "I'm comin', Sammy." The gleam of steel caught his eye under a nearby table; he scooped the weapon up and clumsily took aim. "Hey! Over here, bitch," he shouted, his senses slowly becoming clearer. She cast a sly glance in his direction before turning to Sam and sinking her teeth into his neck. Sam jolted and let out a hoarse scream, fruitlessly struggling with all his might to free himself.

And just like that, Dean had regained his feet. She bit even deeper and Sam's screams elevated before falling sickeningly silent, his head falling limply onto his shoulder. Dean's stomach, which had been churning from the concussion plummeted into his gut. Everything in his vision went white, then red, and before he knew it he had spun her around, shoved the barrel of the gun against her chest, and pulled the trigger. She gasped and let out a breathless laugh before uttering six unbearably ominous words: "Just leaving a going away present." That was all she managed before erupting into a swirling vortex of witchy defeat and collapsing into a small pile of ash.

Dean was already kneeling by Sam's side, flinging the chairs away from his bruised wrists and scooping his lolling head up in a tenderly protective grip. He turned Sam's head to the side to survey the damage. A complicated symbol sat freshly carved into his skin, blood still trickling down into the collar of his shirt. The cut didn't seem deep, but Dean had no clue what that symbol meant. Panic fluttered in his chest.

"Sam." He tried. Sam's body sagged lifelessly against him.

"Sammy." His voice cracked slightly. "Sammy, please…" Sam's skin was still warm, and when he checked there was a faint but steady pulse. But beyond that Sam showed few signs of being alive.

Dean thought he would choke on the fear. "Oh, Sam." He pulled his brother's head against his chest and hugged him close, sending out a silent prayer to whatever might be listening to let his brother wake up. After a few seconds of silence Sam stirred feebly against his chest and Dean pressed him tightly into his shoulder, thankful that this time his prayer had been answered.

"Dean…" Sam managed, voice raw with pain.

"Shh. I'm here, Sammy." Dean let out a shaky laugh, trying hard not to squeeze the life back out of his barely revived brother. "I'm here." Sam tried to turn his head and flinched, letting out a feeble groan. Dean finally let go and ripped his already torn sleeve the rest of the way off, pressing it over the fresh wounds on Sam's neck. It would have to do until they made it out of the warehouse and back to the first-aid kit in the Impala. Sam seemed to recover quickly and took over applying pressure. Relief made Dean woozy. Or maybe it was the concussion. Either way, it was a challenge to climb to his feet. Thankfully, Sam too was able to stand on his own, and even supported Dean as they made their way up the rickety wooden stairs and out of that godforsaken basement turned murder-den. Once they had reached the car, Dean insisted on providing first-aid for Sam's cuts. Sam eyed him doubtfully as he swayed in front of the trunk, but didn't argue. After watching his brother struggle for a few minutes, Sam took the gauze from him gently and finished the job in seconds. "Are you sure you're okay, Sam?" Dean inquired, glancing worriedly at the gauze that hid the unidentified mark on his little brother's neck.

Sam gave him a faintly sardonic smile. "I'm doing better than you are. Get in; I'll drive." Dean opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it as he noticed with irritation that the trunk kept moving just out of his reach. With a sigh he fished the keys out of his pocket and tossed them over the car to Sam. They landed three feet away in the dirt. Sam quickly bent over to snatch them up and hide the smirk on his lips.

"Shut up," Dean managed as he climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat. Sam was careful not to say a word.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam pulled gingerly at the medical tape on his neck, wincing as it tugged at the softened skin. Dean, annoyed that Sam had deemed his concussion bad enough that he shouldn't sleep for a while was watching porn loudly on his laptop. Sam sighed, wishing he could be anywhere else. Ignoring the sounds outside the bathroom for now, he turned back to the mirror to examine the wound his brother had insisted formed a symbol on his neck. He leaned in carefully, hands resting on the stained linoleum counter. His eyebrows tugged together in thought as he saw very quickly that Dean was right; a complicated series of lines ran up the left side of his neck, forming what looked like a pair of lightning bolts surrounded by several spheres. Pulling out his smartphone, he snapped a quick picture as a reference for the unavoidable research that loomed ahead of him. He hoped that with the witch dead the mark would have been neutralized, but the faint tingling beneath his skin suggested otherwise. He just hoped he could get rid of the thing before he found out first-hand what it was meant to do. He sighed quietly, running a hand through his hair and pushing it away from his forehead. It tumbled back into place without delay.

He tried to search through his memory for whatever it was Endria had found that so interested her. When she had captured his gaze it had given her a door into his head. Having someone sift forcefully through your memories was not fun. It was even worse that she had hidden her search from him. Only flickers and colors had registered in his own vision as she searched. "How interesting," she had said, lip curling in scorn. A rosy tint flickered in front of his pupils. "It's okay if it takes a while…so long as it triggers eventually." And with that she had set about her work. Sam shuddered, the thought of her teeth on his skin as fresh as the wound it now sported.

A loud bang on the door grabbed his attention. "Sammy, you okay in there?" Dean's gruff voice, still echoing with worry, sounded through the door. Sam quickly replaced his bandage and flushed the toilet, flipping on the water faucet to simulate the sound of washing hands.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm good." He opened the door and gave his brother a smile. It was true, for now. No sense in showing Dean just how worried he was. Dean was already concerned enough as it is. Dean watched Sam's face quietly for a second before responding.

"I'm so glad I killed that bitch." He growled through his teeth. "What kind of sick freak uses their mouth to do that?" He gestured vaguely at Sam's neck.

Sam placed his hand over the bandage, letting out a huff of amusement. "That kind of sick freak, apparently." Dean was focused on Sam's hand, the faint scrunch in his brow revealing his concern despite his efforts to joke. Sam smacked him on the shoulder. "Stop worrying, Dean." He said with a warm smile. "I'm seriously fine." Dean nodded and averted his eyes, glancing instead at the neon green clock glued crookedly to the far wall. Sam followed his gaze. "Just wait thirty more minutes, Dean. Then you can sleep for as long as you want." Dean just shrugged, flopped back into his chair and clicked play.

The drive back to the bunker was uneventful. Sam noted that the tingling in his neck had faded to a dull ache, something he could easily attribute to the physical wound. He found the thought comforting. Dean was glad to be back at full speed and behind Baby's steering wheel once again. He just didn't feel right in the passenger's seat. The familiar weaving of back country roads and the powerful purr of the engine helped to settle his nerves a little. Being cooped up in a motel had left him no room for anything but worry. As they drove Dean would occasionally glance at Sam when he thought he wasn't looking. Even with calmed nerves, that mark worried him. Nothing good ever came out of a witch encounter, and the fact that their research had turned up next to nothing did little to comfort him.

They thought it was sigil magic based on the stroke-work and asymmetrical patterning, but it was nothing like any of the sigils they had encountered before. Not to mention most sigils were aimed at good rather than evil. They themselves had used sigils to ward against all manner of creatures, and the Men of Letters bunker they called home was saturated with them. There seemed to be little information online about using sigils for darker purposes, and none of the patterns on Sam's neck matched up with traditional sigil work. That likely meant the bitch-witch had been improvising. The only other witch they knew who improvised that much, Rowena, was considered so bad she had even gotten herself kicked out of the Grand Coven, who had their own list of nasty villains. She was also mother to Crowley, King of Hell. He and Sam had agreed not to ask her for help unless they absolutely had to. They had no promises she would tell the truth, and if there was a way for her to exploit it, it wasn't even a question that she would. No, until they had exhausted the bunker library's resources, they would leave that stone unturned.

"Dude. Stop staring." Sam's deep voice pulled Dean from his thoughts. He gave Dean the smile he always used to try and soothe his brother's nerves. Dean wondered if Sam knew just how much that expression actually worried him. It was the same one he used whenever he was hiding something for Dean's sake, so Dean knew it well. Sam had continued, unable to hear the quiet rumbling of Dean's thoughts. "I'm seriously fine. It doesn't even hurt anymore." He let out a soft sigh, eyes drifting back to the road. "We'll just have to wait until we get home. Then we can figure out what it means."

Dean couldn't keep his thoughts quiet. "And what if it starts doing things before we make it back? I'm worried, Sam. You heard what she said! Paired with what she told me, I'm twice as worried." His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he remembered all of the witch-related deaths they had seen. Seeing his brother go through any one of them would rip him to pieces. Even last night's memory of Sam's screams, of his body going limp against the wall left him shaken. "If anything changes, Sam, ANYTHING, you tell me. Got it?" Sam saw the tautness spread through Dean's torso and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Dean pursed his lips, unsure whether the gesture comforted him or just drove home how much the loss of his brother, and such a gesture, would break him.

"I got it, Dean." Sam's tone radiated warmth, trying to soothe his brother. There was no hesitation when he spoke, which told Dean that he wasn't hiding anything from him...yet. Dean sighed, flashed Sam a quick smile and reluctantly accepted that until they were back at the bunker there was nothing he could do. But something still fidgeted in Dean's stomach. He wanted this thing off of Sam as soon as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

Another two hours of road-time and a quick stop at a local diner for some dinner (and pie) saw them safely home. They left most of their stuff in the car, grabbing their backpacks and heading straight for the library. Sam was tired from the drive but Dean was determined to fit in some research before bed. Not wanting to leave his brother alone to fret all night, Sam stifled another yawn and joined him. He collected all of the books they had on witchcraft and sigil magic and stacked them on the end of the table. Dean grabbed the seat directly across from him and flicked on one of the little amber lights before selecting a tome of the top of the pile. After an hour of little progress Dean broke the silence. "You think Cass might know something?"

Sam was rubbing his tired eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "I dunno," he offered noncommittally. "Maybe? It's not like it's his specialty but he has been doing some hunting of his own recently. He might have encountered something." That seemed to be good enough for Dean, who snatched up his phone and stepped into the other room to make a call. Sam sighed again, turning back to his own research. Sigils are more effective and reliable when directed toward a positive will, like safety, health, fertility, or love. Sam honed in on this sentence, which had until now been floating in a choppy sea of irrelevance. He quickly turned the page to the next paragraph. Harnessing sigils with an evil will renders most sigils weak and unreliable. These negative sigils have been known to inflict minor damage on all that come in contact with it, including on occasion its creator. Sam huffed in hopeful relief. While this didn't confirm that the mark on his neck was indeed a sigil, if it was it meant that it likely wasn't lethal.

Dean entered right on cue. "Find anything?"

"Sort of, yeah. Here." He pointed to the passage he had just read. Dean leaned over the text, hand resting loosely on the back of Sam's chair. Sam watched closely as Dean's taut expression softened with each word he read. By the time he reached the spot where Sam had left off, his face had shifted from one of worry to one of skeptical hope.

"It's a start," he huffed, not willing to relax completely. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before resuming his seat.

Sam smiled and let out a soft breath, glad that his brother had relaxed at least a little bit. The aura of tension that had been radiating off of Dean for the last few hours had finally subsided to normal Dean-is-worried levels. He caught himself rubbing his hand over the bandage on his neck again; the skin underneath had been prickling hotly for the last half hour. Not wanting to alarm Dean any further, he tried to ignore it. He glanced at Dean, who had his head buried in a book almost identical to his. Maybe if he excused himself to bed, he could take a look at it without arousing Dean's suspicions too much. Maybe he could get Dean to go to bed as well? Heavy bags still nestled under his brother's eyes, darker than usual thanks to his enforced sleep deprivation the night before. Sam felt his lips pursing with concern. Dean had been letting himself run on empty far too much lately. If he kept it up it might just kill him. But Sam would die before he let that happen. He stood and let out an obvious yawn.

"Night, Dean." Sam said as he started off toward the bedrooms. He expected to hear a grumbled response or the loud thud of his brother shutting his book. Instead he felt Dean's warm grip land firmly on his shoulder; Dean had stood so quietly Sam hadn't even heard him. His heart couldn't decide between leaping into his throat or slipping into his stomach, so it did both.

"Lemme take a look at that before you go," Dean offered quietly. Sam could tell from his tone that Dean had read him like an open book. He had assumed that Dean was so distracted with research that he wouldn't have noticed Sam messing with the bandage. He didn't know that Dean had become attuned to his every movement, watching judiciously for some sign of trouble. He wasn't about to let his brother hide any symptoms from him, and knew that Sam would do exactly that given the chance. So every stretch, every yawn, and especially every motion related to Sam's neck registered clearly in his periphery.

Dean didn't wait for Sam's response, pulling the bandage off with gentle fingers. Sam marveled at Dean's mild touch, soft even with hands that were thoroughly trained in stabbing, shooting, and strangling monsters. That was why Dean was always in charge of first aid; Sam could get it done, but his work often left scars. Dean could wield a needle with such finesse that Sam had half the scars his brother did.

Dean inhaled slightly and frowned when the scars came into view. The cuts had completely healed, much too quickly to be natural. In their place stood deep purple lines; more marks had spread from the initial mark and created a complicated overlay of curving intersections and circles. In its current state it still looked incomplete, like there was still the potential for more to grow.

"Why'd she gotta be so thorough," he grumbled as he snapped a picture and handed his phone to Sam. Sam huffed in annoyance; this added who knows how much time to their research. Sigils they knew. Sigils that progressed after the caster had already died? Not so much.

"Any word from Cass?"

Dean shook his head. "Not yet. Left a message." He was watching Sam's face closely, a silent question rumbling behind his solid gaze. "How does it feel?" He said, his tone relaying his actual meaning: Were you trying to hide this from me?

Sam shrugged. "It was itching, but all cuts itch. I just thought it was healing." His tone was light, non-committal.

Dean wanted to smack him upside the head. "That counts as anything, Sam." Don't hide it from me. Sam let out a laugh and threw Dean a look that suggested he thought his brother was seriously overthinking things. Dean just sighed. "Does it still itch?"

"A little."

"Hm." Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder again, from the front this time, and pushed him down into a chair. Sam landed with a heavy thump, not willing to fight his brother after accidentally almost hiding something pretty important from him. "Will it hurt if I touch it?" Sam shook his head. Dean kept his grip on Sam's other shoulder as he ran the fingers of his right hand over the marks, searching for any scarring. He worked diligently, checking each line with soft fingertips. One line seemed to extend farther from the original mark than the others, heading straight up the neck toward Sam's ear. He followed it slowly, wondering why it also seemed to be lighter than the rest of the scars. Sam shifted suddenly, reaching up and pulling Dean's fingers off his neck. "Sam?" Dean asked, tone tinted with concern.

"That tickles. Stop it." He gave Dean a small smile. Dean lowered his hand and stepped away without complaint, keeping a very close eye on his brother as he regained his feet. Nothing seemed amiss; Sam's face just seemed a bit flushed. After considering their proximity a moment ago, Dean colored slightly himself. Sam excused himself and made for the showers, hauling his backpack over his shoulder as he went. He rested a hand loosely on the left side of his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam shut the door to his room and leaned against it, warmed through from the shower he had sorely needed. He was thankful Dean had left him alone after that weird exchange in the library, since he had half-expected him to com charging after him demanding a better answer. Sam had lied, and Dean knew it. Rather than feeling ticklish, a wave of unfamiliar heat had rolled through Sam's body, and shortly after a sharp pain had burned through the scars, so clear he could almost feel it moving through the lines that covered his skin. Dean's proximity seemed to be the cause, Sam wondered why he had been so aware of it. From the moment they had returned home Sam's attention had been split between worrying about Dean and worrying about the mark. When Dean had come up behind him, the warmth of his hand on Sam's chair had registered so strongly that Sam wondered how he had never noticed things like that before. And Dean had gotten even closer after that; Sam felt himself flush at the memory. It didn't help that Dean was acting differently himself. Usually their contact was limited to playful smacks to the head or shoulder, and the occasional bromantic hug whenever the "chick flick" moment (as Dean referred to it) called for it. Sam knew Dean had meant nothing by it and felt guilty for thinking over something so trivial. But feeling Dean's hands on both sides of his face, and the warmth of his breath on his cheek as he looked over the mark had brought Sam closer to something he suspected he had been avoiding for years. He took a shaky breath and swallowed it again, turning his attention to what should probably be more important. He shuffled across the room to the small picture frame that sat on his desk, twisting it until he could catch a shadow of his reflection in the glass. The image of his scar made him shut his eyes with a heavy sigh. Now the line that Dean had been examining sported three new branches of markings, spreading out across the skin below his ear. So much for the theory of it wearing off, he thought with another sigh. It was probably better to avoid any contact with his brother until further notice. As long as he did that there was no reason to tell Dean about what had just happened. There was no sense in worrying his brother further.


	5. Chapter 5

A loud clang announced the angel's arrival the next morning. Both brothers, who had been unable to sleep soundly, were perched at the center table amidst tall, messy piles of books and papers. Castiel took in the mess, his ragged friends, and the knot of worry knit deeply into Dean's brow. "I got your call," he offered to Sam and Dean who stood up and approached him in unison.

"And?" Dean said, tone sharp with stress and exasperation. The wrinkles in his clothes suggested he hadn't changed in a couple days, and likely hadn't slept at all.

"And," Cass offered, "I came to take a look at it." He approached Sam, gaze already locked on the strange mark that almost seemed to glow on his neck. It wasn't something humans could see, but even grounded his angel eyes afforded him a little more insight. He wrinkled his nose as he got close. "You said she did this just before she died? What did she use to draw it?"

Sam's lips curled in disgust. "Her teeth."

"Hmm," Cass managed, reaching up to touch it. "And some of these occurred after the fact, you said?" Sam nodded. The angel's fingers grazed over the marked skin, and he noticed an unfamiliar warmth beneath the skin. Based on the thoughtful look in Sam's gaze, it seemed he had noticed it, at least partially. And based on the fact that Sam kept sneaking glances at his brother who was currently focused entirely on Castiel's examination, it also seemed like he had not informed his brother yet. Cass sighed. These two humans had a particular affinity for hiding their greatest ills from one another. "Does it hurt?"

"No, I can barely even feel it." Sam responded a little too quickly, and Cass swallowed a smile as Dean's attention immediately flipped to Sam. At least they could still read each other, even if they couldn't be honest. Still, Cass thought it better not to pry in front of Dean. He nodded, accepting that response for now.

"So?" Dean asked, tone even sharper than the first time he spoke. Cass fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew Dean was only heckling him out of worry, but sometimes Dean treated him like an absolute idiot. He swallowed the hint of earthly annoyance and faced Dean calmly.

"So," he said, pausing first to give Dean a meaningful look, "I can't tell you what it's meant to do, but I have a guess as to how she did it, and what that might mean."

Sam saw the sarcasm welling in Dean's throat and spoke first to prevent another rude comment directed at the angel. "Honestly, we have next to no solid leads, so pretty much anything would help us at this point." Dean just huffed. Castiel focused his attention on Sam and nodded.

"I'm sure you have noticed at this point, but that mark is alive. I could smell it as soon as I got close." Sam's eyebrows dipped in confusion, but he didn't say anything. Cass continued. "When she placed that mark on you, she must have believed she wasn't going to survive the encounter. Magic like this is kept in reserve only for the most desperate of times. She left what I can best describe as a 'soul-mark;' she shaved off a layer of her soul and used it like thread, weaving it into your skin to form the spell. I've never seen it used with a sigil before, but the concept is the same no matter the spell work. It fuels the spell, keeps it active even after the caster's death. She attached her intentions to it, and the mark responds to them." Sam now wore a look that seemed to be a perfect blend of panic, confusion, embarrassment, and disgust. Dean's brow was now so low it was mashing his eyes back into his skull. Cass found his sudden resemblance to the Neanderthals amusing, but thought now was not the time to laugh.

"Do you know anything else about this….spell mark?" Dean said, sharpness finally curbed by the new information.

Cass sighed. "It's not active yet, which means it has a trigger, and with any spell there has to be a way to break it. There's no such thing as the perfect spell. Only a clever one, with a well-hidden key. The best way to find the key is to figure out what the spell is meant to do. And hopefully before it does it."

Sam let out a slow sigh. "So it's back to the books then."

"Or we could just stroll down the block to our friendly neighborhood witch and ask her," dean offered sarcastically, dropping back into his chair and shoving his notes out of the way, gaze back on the textbook in front of him. Sam huffed in agreement. "But there is no one around for miles," Cass said, confused. "And Rowena is hardly friendly; she's tried to kill you on several occasions." Sam stared blankly at the oblivious angel, and Dean just shook his head.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel had initially planned to stick around and monitor Sam's condition, as the angel seemed to be more aware of other possible symptoms that could develop with the mark. He also wasn't completely sure the caster's soul wasn't infected, though he hadn't shared that piece of information with his friends; sometimes the soul a caster that desperate would fester, especially if that wasn't their first soul-rending spell. A wounded soul rarely healed well. Until those symptoms developed, however, he didn't want to worry his friends with the possibility. And after a day and a half of Dean's stressed sarcasm, Sam's non-committal responses, and no change in the mark, Cass decided that he would be put to better use researching…..outside the bunker. Sam followed him to the door and apologized briefly for Dean, who hadn't even looked up when the angel had announced his departure. Cass waved him off.

"Call if anything changes, please." He said, looking intently at Sam. Sam sighed, realizing Castiel could probably read him about as clearly as his brother could. The thoughtful looks he had been receiving over the last day made him wonder just how much the angel had noticed. "And be careful."

"I promise." He offered up a genuine smile that almost concerned Cass. The younger brother seemed confident that he had already resolved the problem, though he hadn't shared that solution with the rest of them. "You too." The angel gave Sam a meaningful look which was brushed off. And with that Cass took his leave.

Three days later, Dean had hardly left his seat. Bags weighed heavily underneath his eyes, which had faded from their normal vivid green to a pale green-grey. While he had showered and changed at least once since taking up his post at the research table, the constant burden of his worries kept him looking washed out, rather than clean. He was determined to find a way, some way, to reverse that confounded spell, or remove the soul, or just transfer the damn thing to his own neck so he wouldn't have to worry about what it might do to his brother anymore. Sam didn't seem to be showing any adverse symptoms so far, and Dean wanted to keep it that way. He was afraid that if they just left it as is, with the trigger unknown, that one day he would turn around and find Sam lying on the floor, cold and stiff. Whenever he shut his eyes that image danced in front of them, warding against any chance of restful sleep.

Sam was just the opposite; he couldn't seem to bring himself to care about the mark. It had actually stopped hurting for real this time, and hadn't expanded since the night they had returned from the hunt. After the first night of fitful sleep, Sam had taken the research pretty seriously. But after finding that passage in the book, and after deciding to limit contact with his brother, he found himself apathetic about the mark. As long as it didn't act up, there were more important things to focus on. After deciding that, he had had the most restful sleep in years. Now if only Dean could do the same.

Pretty sure his brother was somehow linked to the spell's trigger, Sam wanted to find something, anything else to occupy his brother's mind. For all Sam knew his obsession over the thing WAS the trigger. But he couldn't just say that to Dean; knowing his brother would start blaming himself for Sam's mark, and Dean didn't need to wear any more guilt than he had already forced on himself. In an attempt to distract him, Sam had found a couple of possible cases in the nearby states; but Dean had barely given them a second glance before returning to his reading. Sam had to admire his dedication to the research. He read almost as much as Sam usually did, though Dean insisted that was an exaggeration. "How could I ever reach your level of nerd, Sam?" He had offered once with a light-hearted smile. Sam had been glad just to see that, brief as it was.

A week passed, and finally Sam had had enough. Dean looked like a walking corpse, and now refused to even leave the table. He had been reading the same paragraph for three hours, but kept insisting that he was almost on to something. Sam really wanted to clock his brother on the jaw and knock him out cold, but after Dean's concussion from the last hunt he didn't want to add any additional damage. Instead he took a dose from his stash of sleeping medication and dissolved it into his brother's coffee. Sam was thankful he had decided to sneak some from the pharmacy where they had worked a case a few months ago. He laughed at the memory; they were hunting a junkie turned werewolf, who despite being unable to feel the effects of his old favorites had continued his habits, and in a fit of desperation began robbing local pharmacies to try and get his fix. Ironically, he had been strong enough to resist the urge to eat hearts for months, so focused on his drug problem's problem instead. The only thing that had given him away were the constant sightings on the lunar cycle by the overnight janitorial staff. They caught him easily, his arms so full of opioids he couldn't even run. Sam almost felt bad for the guy, but knew a monster that unstable was nothing but dangerous.

Although Dean was usually pretty good at detecting drugs in his food, his sheer exhaustion prevented him from noticing, and within about half an hour he was sleeping soundly on the table. Not quite satisfied, Sam tucked Dean's arm around his neck and hoisted him out of the chair, awkwardly carrying him back to his room and thankful for once that Dean had insisted on having the room closest to the door. Dean's head lolled gently on Sam's shoulder. As Sam sat him down on the bed and lowered him onto the pillows, he mumbled Sam's name, clearly worrying over his brother even in his drug-induced sleep. Sam let out an exasperated breath and smacked Dean lightly on the forehead, not enough to wake him, but hopefully enough to refocus his thoughts for the night. Dean quieted, and Sam wondered with a quiet laugh if it had actually worked. He exited the room without ceremony, muttering a passing, "g'night, Dean," as he pulled the door shut behind him. He tried to ignore the warmth Dean's arm had left on his neck.


	7. Authors Note

Okay, so some spoilers are coming up, so if you are not up to date on the series, turn back now! I'm not going into too much depth but I am bringing up characters that are encountered through season 10 at least. I'll try to keep it vague in case you are trying to catch up, but you have been warned! I promise that romance is on the way, but like I warned you, this is going to be a really slow build. I like it when things simmer, instead of just boiling over. So be patient, enjoy the read, and leave a comment below!

Enjoying the work so far? Things are going to start shifting in the next few chapters, so be prepared. I'm going to be introducing some elements that are more clearly separate from the canon universe, so if I don't clarify something completely or you have questions, let me know in the comments below!


	8. Chapter 7

It is exceedingly difficult to wake up pissed when you are drugged, but as one of the most stubborn men on earth, Dean Winchester deftly managed it. His eyes fell on the clock when he woke, informing him that he had wasted the last 15 hours on sleep. One smack of his lips told him that it wasn't a natural sleep, either. He ignored the fact that he finally felt rested, instead thankful that he now had the strength to effectively punch his idiot of a little brother. He lurched to his feet, still groggy from the previous day's dosage, and stumbled to the door. "Sam?" He shouted irritably. His recent sleep thickened his voice, and it took him a couple of tries to clear it. "Sam?" He tried again. There was no answer. Dean headed to the library, sure his brother was there reading and choosing to ignore him. Well, Sam was going to find out just how well that was going to work. He rounded the corner, now fully awake and ready to confront his brother. Except he wasn't there.

The knot that had been living in his gut tightened slightly. He checked the kitchens, the firing range, and finally the garage to see if the Impala was even still here. It sat in its normal place, parked by the garage doors and ready to go. Dean checked his watch. It was just after one in the afternoon. Still, he returned to check the one place he assumed Sam wouldn't be, but hesitated outside the door. "Sam?" he tried, less angry and more worried by the minute. Images of his dreams flickered in the back of his mind. But when he opened the door he found his brother, tucked neatly into his sheets in that particular way of his, sleeping peacefully. Dean let out a heavy sigh, muscles relaxing again. He noticed a residual ache that suggested he had been clenching them a lot lately. Anger followed relief, and Dean found himself storming up to his brother. He grabbed the glass of water that sat on the nightstand and upended it over the bed. Sam awoke, spluttering in shock. He sat up and shot a glare at his brother. Dean didn't flinch.

"What the hell, Dean?" He asked, panting slightly. Dean noticed he hadn't been sleeping with a knife or a gun handy, or his brother would have no doubt drawn it on him. He made a mental note to lecture him on that later. For now there were more important matters to discuss.

"That's my line, Sam! What the hell were you thinking, dosing me up like that?" He asked, gesturing to the bedroom door with annoyance.

"I was thinking," Sam replied tightly, "That you looked like hell. You were so tired it's not like you were getting anything done in the first place. I just made sure you actually slept so you wouldn't up and die on me reading books in the damn library!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, Sam! Do you really have to be so dramatic? I was fine. Actually, I was more than fine! And you know why? Because I was actually trying to find a way to cure the damn thing, unlike you! Do you even want it off?"

Sam clenched his teeth, biting back a response. Dean always did this. He always tried to push through every problem, and wore himself to the bone doing so. And he always turned Sam's choice to rest and maintain himself back on him, accusing him instead of not caring about the problem in the first place. It's not like he didn't care; he just knew from past experience that they rarely came across the answer to a new problem in a week or two. Some of their more complicated cases went a month or more. If there wasn't a monster to pursue, more often than not it took months to find a decent lead, and several more to properly pursue it. The fact that his brother always wanted to condemn him for pacing himself infuriated him. Yelling wasn't going to solve anything.

But damn was it satisfying.


	9. Chapter 8

WARNING: Characters with Spoilers attached ahead!! I only mentioned the basics, but beware looking them up on the supernatural wiki! You will get a ton of spoilers and you won't be able to go back! If you are up to date on the show and just don't remember the name, though, you should be safe.

The brothers went to their separate corners to cool down after their fight. They knew that trying to talk it out at this point would only end in another shouting match, and neither really felt like yelling at each other. They had each said their piece, paired with a few hurtful words laced with their concern for one another, and now it was time to refocus. Sam made sure to make a trip to the library from time to time to grab something else to read. He didn't want Dean thinking he was slacking, but couldn't stand to sit in the same room and deal with the passive glares Dean often threw at him after a fight.

Dean had forgiven Sam mere moments after their fight, but he felt it was important to let his words simmer a bit. He knew that Sam had been a little right; he had gotten himself a bit worked up about all the unknowns surrounding the thing on his brother's neck. It wasn't that his concern was misplaced, because he knew there wasn't one time when he and his brother actually caught a break. It had always been a series of shit-shows, failed rescues, and repeated deaths. Their only break so far was that nothing had successfully kept them dead yet. He didn't want to have to cross that line again this time.

Still, Sam seemed to be feeling better than before, and the mark hadn't developed further since that first night back at the bunker. Dean wondered why that was. It had grown significantly in the first eight hours, and Sam had clearly felt it. Why was it dormant now? While he hadn't said anything directly, Sam was acting like he already knew what had caused it to spread, and was simply working to prevent it on his own. The fact that he wouldn't share his theory with his brother worried Dean. What was so secret that he couldn't even rely on his own brother?

After a few hours of solid work, Dean made his way to the kitchens. Sam had been staying in his room, probably assuming Dean was still mad and needed some space. But Dean's anger had simmered out hours ago, mostly thanks to the sleep he had just gotten. Which meant that even though he would never say it out loud, Sam had been right. And Dean realized that he had probably worried Sam almost as much as he was worrying himself about the mark. While it was underhanded and dirty, Sam was only trying to help. That meant that even though he wasn't going to let up on the research, he would make an effort to exercise at least a little more control.

Dean grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and made his way to Sam's room. The door was open, and Dean found Sam crammed into the tiny desk, one leg splayed to the side because they both simply wouldn't fit under the table. He was propped up on one elbow, stretched awkwardly to the side; Dean could tell by the way Sam's head rested on his hand that he was about five minutes from either changing position, or giving up entirely. Four books lay open on the bed, and the heavy tome Sam had been favoring perched atop the desk amidst papers and file folders. Dean let out an amused sigh. He had no right to say Sam hadn't been taking this seriously. His meticulous nature wouldn't let him slack off on the research, even if he didn't want to do it.

"Find anything?" Sam asked, turning to face him. Dean had been watching him from the doorway for a couple of minutes without speaking, and the feeling of his eyes on his back made reading surprisingly difficult.

"Yeah," Dean replied, curbing his usual sarcasm to keep Sam from getting defensive, "no. Not really." He tossed the beer to Sam, who caught it deftly and twisted off the cap, letting it clatter on the desktop. Sam let out a quiet breath and opened his mouth to apologize. Dean spoke over him. "I get why you did it, Sam. Just—don't drug me next time, okay?"

Sam looked relieved. "Sure. As long as you sleep from time to time." Dean let out an exasperated breath and took a swig from the bottle in his hand. Sam did the same. They remained like that for a few minutes, comfortable in each other's company. Then Sam cleared his throat.

"So I actually did find something, a couple of hours ago." Sam said, averting his gaze and instead focusing on the sheet of paper that lay in front of him. He knew Dean was now making that closed-eyed annoyed face of his, but continued on before Dean could retort. "I found that passage in this book earlier, which didn't have any additional info on that section, and I couldn't find a signature on the notes to figure out which Man of Letters had written it. Usually they sign off on each piece of research, like meeting minutes.

"But I got the feeling that I had seen this writing style before, you know, the way he uses modifiers on his opening sentences and usually concludes with a really long ending paragraph."

"You are such a nerd," Dean interjected, unable to resist.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Do you want to know what I found or not?" Dean just smirked at him. Sam sighed. "I decided to flip through the member archives to see if I could match the writing style to one of the members on file. And I found a match. Remember our dear friend Cuthbert Sinclair?" Dean's lip curled in recognition of the name. Sam was careful not to linger on the name too long. "As you might remember, he was directly initiated as Master of Spells when he joined the men of letters. He knew all sorts of spells, including but not limited to—"

"Sigils." Dean said, focus evident in his voice. He let Sam continue.

"Right. Now, unfortunately, he was such a genius, he rarely took notes."

Dean sighed. "Great." He took another swig of his beer.

"But," Sam added in the dramatic voice he always used to get to his final point, "his student did."

"His student?" Dean asked, looking confused.

"Yeah," Sam said, a satisfied smile perched on his lips. "Henry Winchester."


	10. Chapter 9

Season 8 spoilers are present. I repeat. SEASON 8 SPOILERS ARE PRESENT! Read at your own risk. After this chapter we're going to start getting some action outside the bunker, and some development between the characters, so be ready. :)

"Wait. You're saying that bit on sigils was written by—by our grandfather?"

"Yup." Sam passed one of the folders to Dean. "Now, there isn't a lot of extra information, but there is an interesting passage in that case folder. You see, Henry shadowed Sinclair quite a bit before his mentor's crazy magics got the guy kicked out. So he took notes on a lot of his research."

Dean frowned. "But I thought Henry hadn't started a journal yet."

Sam shook his head. "He hadn't. These are more like meeting minutes, like I was saying before. Henry almost had full clearance before Abaddon came in and killed everyone, so for things like basic spell research, he was allowed to be present. They considered it part of their field experience, which they were required to get a lot of before reaching their final initiation. They just gave him a job while he was there. Now, I guess until Sinclair's expulsion they didn't notice just how far from 'basic' his research had really gone." Dean nodded slowly, like he understood. But his eyes were focused on the page in front of him. Sam waited for Dean to read the last passage. Dean's eyes froze at the bottom of the page, before flicking up to meet Sam's own.

"Is this saying what I think it is?" Sam nodded. Dean kept going. "No, I mean, this description, it sounds like—"

"Yeah." Sam said quietly, smile no longer as prominent as before. "Endria."

Dean swore. "So that bitch TAUGHT Sinclair how to use all of that soul slicing stuff?"

"And not just that," Sam added, "He also learned how to use others' souls to power his own spells, and how to steal said souls and place them in objects for later use. I'm pretty sure that when Henry turned these notes in Sinclair's sentence was set then and there." Sam laughed darkly.

Dean was looking at the page again. "This sounds bad, Sam. Really bad." He looked back up at his brother, watching him closely. "How are you feeling?"

"Great." He said, almost looking surprised at himself. Dean was equally surprised at his answer. "It hasn't spread in a week now, and I'm sleeping and eating normally, and honestly feel better than I have in a while."

"Good," Dean said, though the look in his eyes suggested he wasn't satisfied. Sam sighed. "I know this—" he gestured to his neck, "sucks, but until it starts acting up again, I'm not going to drain myself worrying about it. And neither should you." He gave Dean a pointed look.

Dean ignored it. "Have you found anything else?"

"I'm working on it." He gestured to a stack of filing boxes sitting next to him.

Dean walked over, tossed his now empty beer bottle into the nearby trash can, picked the files up off the floor, and headed toward the door. "Well, let's work on it together." Sam sighed quietly as he gathered his messy stack of notes and followed his brother to the library.

Two days later, and Sam and Dean had read every case file that involved Cuthbert Sinclair. Henry had written many notes, and they had even come across a few in Sinclair's own hand. Dean had spent hours laboring over his sloppy chicken scratch—apparently if it wasn't a spell it wasn't worth writing it down. Nothing else about Endria cropped up, though some information on sigils had appeared. Dean sighed as he compiled a list of the things he had learned:

1) Endria was apparently some big-time witch; some of Sinclair's notes hinted that the stories she told were centuries old.

2) Thanks to Cass, they knew the spell on his brother was one of the soul-slicing specialties that Endria had taught Sinclair. According to his notes, once bonded with the spell only the caster could remove it. Which meant Sam was stuck with it.

3) The mark on Sam's neck was definitely a sigil; those had been Endria's specialty. Sinclair had even recorded a few of her sigils, and her "signature" was pretty clear. While the sigils he recorded had notes decrypting the spell's meanings, none of them quite correlated to Sam's mark. So they still had no clue what exactly her spell was supposed to do.

4) Like they had suspected, she had set up the spell to respond to a trigger, which could be any thought, image, color, smell, sound or event the caster chose. The partial expansions of the mark suggested Sam had come close to the trigger, but had not reached it. No matter how Dean prompted him Sam insisted he had no clue what it was. Which frustrated Dean to no end.

5) Sigils cannot kill; well wishes could be twisted to serve an ill purpose, but one could not reverse "long life" to "short life;" It was easier to use things like "wealth" and shift it to "a wealth of misfortune." Which meant while Sam's life wasn't in danger, there were a lot of ways this spell could screw him up, potentially permanently.

6) Just like her spells had a trigger, in order to keep a spell effective permanently it needed a lock. And that lock typically had a key. Whatever key the caster chose would have to be related to the trigger, but be something that caster thought was such an impossibility that it would never be encountered.

7) Dean needed to find that damn key, as soon as possible, whatever it took.

Resources exhausted, Sam started looking for cases. Dean was reluctant at first, not wanting to put his brother into the potentially trigger-filled world without a hint of what the trigger was, but Sam pointed out that it was in the bunker where the mark spread the most so for all they knew, the trigger was in the bunker. And in an instant it was settled. Case or no case, they would be hitting the road.


End file.
